The Attack Outside
by CattheLion
Summary: The BLU team prepare to leave their base, on behalf of an idea by Blutarch that could be extremely effective in clearing out their enemies, once and for all. But after years of routinely slaughtering the REDs, none of the team are prepared for the wave of regret that comes with the final blows. Ensemble cast, major character death.
1. Ignition

Blu Barracks was never dark.

The dark stomach of a panther crawled over the orange stretches of sunset, her black fur swallowing the hot-blooded sunset. In protest, angry marks of an industrial white speckled themselves across the blackening country, fleabites glowing hotly on the dark skin of the land.

Flickering outdoor lights roused themselves outside the barracks. With gaps of ten metres or so in between each, the streetlamps stood to attention along a shabby grey road, brown sand and dirt picking at the gaps in the tarmac. The lumpy paintwork of the exterior wall glowed eerily, a shade somewhere between the off shades of pale mint and teal, accented by blinding white lamps mounted directly onto the urban plaster.

Nothing was happening outside. Occasionally a streetlamp flickered, or a rat hastened its pace across long stretches of wall into the pokey spaces of cramped hidey holes. Some form of wind- quite frankly, too light to even be called a breeze- rustled leaves into a whispering vigour.

Quite contrary, the inside of the building was an awful mess of crushing sound, that almost immediately hushed back into awkward silence, and light flooded every corner of a garage housing one lone car, and a whirling disk with a blue ray.

Nine men stood in a room to the side of a sprawling garage. A table of shoddy quality wobbled under stresses of activity: fists and drinks containers banging onto its surface, the boyish kicks of a young man with his feet dangling from over the edge.

The space in the side room was minimal. There was a stench of rubber and tangy metal, petrol and metal polisher stinging the tongue after every inhaled breath. It was tight and cramped, an odd sort of tension that existed in the stands of sports games; another man's sweat inches away from the nose, and the crushing atmosphere that could turn from gleeful unity to surly shoves in moments.

Thankfully the former situation applied; their clothing mixed bright blues with soft periwinkles and light turquoise, the cold colour like religious clothing, and the huddled figures swaying in unison.

In the slightly chilly air brought on by a croaking air conditioner, swirls of smoke poured out of the end of a cigarette. They turned from a suffocating heat to lukewarm trails, and the cigarette was stubbed under leather gloves.  
"We have five minutes before we need to leave." Spy announced, glancing from a wall clock to the other men. "Knowing that a large portion of your talents rely on dumb luck alone, I feel as though it is necessary to emphasise…" He held the corpse of the cigarette between thumb and forefinger. "There is _no _window for improvisation here. I will not deny that it would be nice to have some 'luck', but if you intend to rely solely on fickle fortune, then regardless of your actions you will fail."  
The voices of the other mercenaries had died down into a sombre silence that was as loud as any of their former whoops and cheers. Everybody's focus was transfixed onto the man in the suit.  
Spy slipped another cigarette under a lighter that he obscured under the collar of his jacket. A stocky figure in a rubber suit made unintelligible noises from under its alienating gas mask, and attempted to peer around Spy's hands to find the source of the light. The shadows of Spy's blouse flickered from black against white, moulding themselves back into continuous shades of grey when the lighter was replaced in an inside pocket of the jacket. He took another long drag from the cigarette, staring pensively at the wall to his left. Perhaps in a film he would be looking towards the setting sun, or out of a window.  
But his wistful expression was wasted on an undecorated wall.  
"This is not an official battle; there will be no respawn. Of course, we plan to use this to our advantage, but…"  
"It's a double-edged blade." Demoman finished his sentence for him, the normally brash voice quietened to a calm murmur when not stoked by liquors. His hands were curled into his lap, and his back hunched in the chair.  
Medic spoke up next. "We have tossed this plan back and forth for the past week, Spy. Modifications have been made where necessary, and we are all rehearsed in what we intend to do."  
"Is no intention of ours. We are ordered to do this."  
Medic sighed and glanced gloomily at the Heavy. "We were told what our outcome needed to be. Our employer did not specify how we were to do it, and thus our intentions are to get everything over with as quickly as possible- for the sake of both teams."  
"No need to get sentimental, Medic." Spy said.  
"But regardless of us succeeding in the mission or not, our priority should be to make sure that everybody _stays alive_. My Medigun relies on respawn to work, so I've essentially been stripped down to a couple of healing kits."  
"Worst does come to worst, I'll be getting a teleporter entrance set up for the _really _nastily injured."  
"Is the Exit built in our base still working?"  
"I'll check as we're leaving."  
Spy briefly checked his watch: twenty minutes to ten.  
"We might as well make that now, then. If we're quick, we can get there by eleven."  
It took a couple of moments before people started moving. They exchanged wary glances, and waited anxiously for someone to make the first move. The Scout pushed himself off the table.  
"Let's go, then."  
Soldier and Demoman awkwardly mumbled to each other, patting one another on the shoulder as they roughly shoved their chairs under the table and left. Spy stood to the side of the door, receiving all of the nervous eye contact as his team shuffled past. Sniper was the last to leave, carefully treading on the cement floor and stopping to nod at Spy.  
"You worried about them?"  
Spy did not answer, and padded into the garage after Sniper.

The Engineer was crouched down by his teleporter exit, two of his organic fingers brushing the dull metal frame. The blue petals of the light glimmered, slowly twisting in search for something to connect to. The other mercenaries were piling into a knackered truck, the denim blue sides sagging dangerously to the floor as the Heavy shuffled over the seats. Medic had relinquished his usual spot in the passenger seat in favour of sitting next to Heavy, by the window.

Spy and Engineer took their places in the front seats. The blue-suited man shoved the keys roughly into the ignition, and the already cramped atmosphere of the car swelled when stuffy, hot air droned through the central heating. Scout tugged at the collar of his shirt, and the curves of Pyro's suit tensed, as though the body inside it had stiffened.  
"Spy, if you catch my meaning, 'who's' driving?" Engineer asked. Spy's gloved fingers drummed at the steering wheel, lost in thought. After a short pause, he gave a weak smile to the Engineer, all of his typical confidence slipping through gaps in the tightly closed lips.  
"_I_ am."  
He turned to the rest of the team in the back, seven waiting faces looking straight back at him.  
"You have all been good teammates. If we succeed, I don't suppose our employer will require our services again. Knowing how _nosy _some of you tend to get, allow me to satisfy your curiosity before I disappear from you forever."  
His hands reached for the edges of his balaclava, the delicate hem feeling like nothing under the thick material of his leather gloves. It was like watching a scab peeling from skin, scars accenting the lines of a pale neck.

Infamous among the team for his complete lack of trust or anything resembling warmth towards his teammates, his confession left them unsure of how to respond. And no sooner after it, they were finally allowed to see the snake shedding his skin.

Over a sharply pointed chin, and angular cheekbones. Over neat ears, and smoky grey shadows of peppered stubble, rough like gravel on a concrete jaw.  
The mask slipped over a Roman nose, and peeled from a wide brow and dark grey eyes, and waves of neat black hair, home to crawling flicks of silver over the sideburns.

Spy's closed fist twirled the balaclava into a tightly wound ball, and he settled the navy fabric onto the dashboard. More silence was the response, in vigil for whatever the Spy called his pride.  
The strange, somewhat haggard face tried to smile again, before quietly addressing them again.  
"To those of you who have their headgear on, I'd advise you to remove it." Buckles and straps from helmets and goggles replaced speech for a couple of moments, and even Sniper obliged and removed his hat.  
"Thank you; it is relieving to know that after exposing my face to you all in the name of a disguise, we will not be caught out when somebody sees your...unconventional headwear."  
Scout piped up from the back.  
"What about Pyro? Are they gonna have to take their mask off too, Spy?" The boy's tone was not malicious; he was not accusing Pyro of being left out, nor was he hoping to catch a glimpse of the firebug's own face.  
When you spent so much time away from your team, it was easy to forget that they were friends with each other just as much they were co-workers.  
Spy shook his head. "Just make sure Pyro keeps their head down."  
Nobody was sure whether or not the arsonist had responded to their kind gestures; they were slumped on Scout's shoulder, the body in the blue suit wriggling in order to get more comfortable.  
"Well, men?" Soldier said. Spy looked around sharply, wondering if he was mistaken in hearing the veteran's voice crack slightly. "Time to get moving!"

Giving the teleporter a wide berth, the car moaned itself out of sleep and trundled out of the garage with heaving grunts.

Night air flooded into the dark car, and a mechanical swish and clank indicated that the garage door had just closed behind them. Uneasy chatter marked the bumps in the road, and they swung down the small slope, out of the Blu base, and out of the reaches of safety.


	2. Along the Dusty Road

**AN: Sorry for not updating for a while. Exams are being a pain recently, and ironically I've been very busy improving my skills in TF2 the game, as opposed to my skills in writing fanfiction for it.  
I** **appreciate reviews (especially constructive criticism)**

The beaten-up car trundled along quiet roads. Its scuffed tires kicked up dirt and sand, sweeping them into a storm tinged by unfiltered white light from naked street lamps. The tense passengers sat inside morosely, muttering to each other in poorly disguised worry.

The car started to slowly roll up a hill. The driver in the suit clutched the steering wheel in a death grip, a strained expression matching a body that had every muscle clenched, and every nerve on alert.  
"How much longer?" grunted a cranky Sniper.  
"Oh, the night air never did suit you, did it Sniper?" Spy huffed.  
"Didn't ask for a beauty check, did I? Just answer the question."  
"Half an hour."  
"Jesus Christ."

That was one deity that they could pray to.  
Spy shrugged from the front seat. "Do not fret. You may all be hopeless at times, but rest assured that our enemies still manage to be even more useless. It will be easy to beat them down."  
Scout snorted from the back, seemingly half asleep. "So then _we_ become the most useless shits on the planet?"  
"Yes, but I suppose none of you will have to keep up appearances as 'tough' and 'powerful' for the sake of showing off to their teammates ever again, so what does being useless matter when there's nobody around to witness it?"  
"God, gloom and doom." Demoman chuckled. "Preferred it when you were getting all sentimental with us, blah blah, trust you all with my life, taking off my mask now."  
Spy's eyes remained fixed on the road.  
"You are literally hired assassins. Why would I trust you with my life?"  
"Take a joke, Spy!"  
"I am well aware that it was a joke, Demoman, but at the moment I'm concentrating on driving."  
"Piss-poor excuse, eh? Nah, I've heard Engie use it a million times before when he's my designated driver."  
"Most of the time, Demo, I'm under the impression that you're sleep-talking and can't hear any of it."  
Heavy smiled. "Engie is good driver for Demoman and rest of us drunks. Demoman is always being passed out on back seat, and I go in front by Engie, and is lucky Scout is such tiny baby, and fits next to Demoman in back." Scout's head snapped up, his shoulder still drooping on the side of the grimy glass of the window.  
"None of you should be getting drunk in the first place. Your entire job revolves around you being in peak physical condition, and to be frank with you all, I'm getting sick of doling out hangover pills just so you can stumble around the field."  
"You never give me any hangover pills, Medic!"  
"I have a limited supply, Demoman."  
"What if being hungover affects my battle skills, eh, Medic?"  
"By some miracle, you actually function on the battlefield- somewhat- when drunk. Unless you want me to put you on a plan?"  
"Cutting out my drinks! No, Doctor, just one night sober's killing me."  
"Ironic, considering that every night you spend drunk literally kills you."  
"Nothing that Respawn can't pick up."  
"Technically true, but one has to wonder how many times I can keep on supplying you new livers outside of the field." Shuffling in his seat, the doctor turned to regard Spy sternly. "The same goes for your lungs."  
"Oh, doctor, let me be with my addictions."  
The other man looked back out of the window, tugging at his seatbelt. "And when you, the unmasked man, have disappeared from us 'forever'? Are you going to find a new Medic to sew your brand new lungs in? Sneak into my practice every couple of months when the cigarettes get to be too much for you? Well, France is right next to Germany, I suppose."  
"Oh, a little further; I'm French Canadian."

"Well, tonight has been full of interesting information." Engineer finally spluttered, breaking them all out of their gawping stares. "Now, no need to be so morbid, gents. What are ya'll planning to do after we go through with tonight?"  
"Get drunk, make bombs, look after my Mum."  
"Get laid- even more than usual- make ladies swoon, look after my Mom."  
The Engineer laughed, rasping slightly. "Suppose being complicated isn't always the way through. Personally I was planning on returning to Texas, setting up a little mechanics shop."  
"Not a little toymaker's store, Engie? With all the girly little dollies?"  
The stocky man huffed and threw a half-smile at Soldier. "I'd probably put guns in their eyes."  
"I could actually see you making toys, Engineer. Not any of those nonsense dolls that sob whenever some poor girl walks past, but little trains with steam puffing out of their funnels, whirring around on a fully-functional train track. The finest toy for any child."  
Engineer chuckled, his eyes suddenly taking on a slightly glassy look that was usually hidden underneath the tinted goggles he constantly wore. Spy saw his fingers curl into his pocket, and produce a minute scrap of paper and pencil. He lightly placed it on the dashboard, and ceased all communication, save for the almost soundless scratches of his pencil.  
He was not likely to talk for the rest of the journey.  
"I will be going back to look after family." mentioned Heavy. "Could get some work in Russian army, maybe. I could still use Sascha then. What is Medic doing?"  
"Medic…doesn't know, Heavy." The doctor sighed. "I could reapply for my doctor's license, and retrain for…I don't know. Forensic science has always been interesting, but I can also see myself working as a university lecturer, or a researcher."  
"Doctor will do well. Perhaps I will get new cure for disease, invented by you?"  
The Medic smirked, taking on a dangerous expression. "No. More likely they will be inventing a cure for a disease created by me." That got something akin to a chuckle amongst the group.

Sniper and Spy were saved from probing questions by a ranting Soldier, hoping to (officially) 're-join' the American army, 'and whip the hippie nancy boys into shape'. Then the conversation turned to Pyro, who they had always known to be travel-shy. Medic had provided them with brown paper bags, which were twisted into black coils at the arsonist's feet. Although usually more of a night owl (from what it was possible for them to observe), they were slumped into Scout's chest. The drowsy boy looked baffled by the lightly snoring firebug, but was nearly asleep anyway, hypnotised by the white dots of street lamps.  
"And the Pyro?" Engineer asked, not expecting any absolute answers.  
"Straight back to an asylum, I could guess." Spy murmured, still looking at the road.  
"Poor bastard. If they even are a bastard."  
"Oui." The driver sighed, haggard. His pupils suddenly began to dilate in a faint light from up ahead. He growled and scowled at the oncoming car. "A car is approaching. There should be a blanket that you can throw on Pyro, and…perhaps Heavy could duck down."  
Soldier and Demoman snatched hideous striped blankets from the floor, clumps of dust trailing off the fabric. Bickering slightly, they scrambled to hurl the blankets over Pyro. Medic panicked.  
"Allow Pyro to breathe! This car air is too stuffy as is, and we don't want…"  
Demoman fidgeted with the hem of the blanket, sloping it over the angle of Scout's slender arm. The worn gloss of the rubber mask shone slightly under the car light, but otherwise Pyro was obscured- and breathing.  
The bomber twiddled at the hem some more, glancing back to Medic.  
"Good enough, but they can still overheat…"  
Engineer opened one eye from his mock sleep and quickly twiddled at a knob that sent a rush of cool air wafting through the car. Sniper shivered, staring resolutely out of his window to obscure his face from the mauve car beginning to bump past them.

Spy's fingers raised to salute the driver, as customary for drivers on lonely roads. The other man was tanned in his face, a mangy Stetson- not uncommon to see people wearing them- perched on his head. Their cars passed, and Spy waited tersely, glancing in his mirror for the back lights to disappear over a slope. His cue came, and he and the other passengers let out relieved sighs.  
"Golly, that was tense."  
Spy realised that his heart rate had rocketed. "Indeed." He coughed, tossing his cigarettes to Engineer with a quick side look. Engineer's thick fingers tumbled around the slender body of the cigarette, but he clumsily succeeded in lighting one and passing it to Spy.  
"Did you want one too?" Spy mumbled through his cigarette. A lazy trail of perfumed smoke drifted from the end. Engineer looked doubtfully at the box of cigarettes, and fumbled to light another. He took a quick drag from it and gagged from the sweet taste.  
"The heck is this?"  
"The only thing that I can assure you on is that it is not cyanide."  
"Well, that is a pity, ain't it?" Engineer deadpanned. He sat back in his chair and choked another drag down. His scrap of paper was held between his thumb and forefinger, the minute writing being carefully read over and over.  
Sniper had a similar reaction to his mechanic over the cigarette that he grudgingly asked Spy for. He puckered and rather unattractively spat into his sleeve. Medic was glaring all around, his nose firmly planted next to the tiny open portion of the window.  
"Oh, so melodramatic."  
"Passive smoking kills too. Gott, I am your _Medic_, why didn't I nip this all in the bud the second you started waving those ghastly things around?"  
"I'm thankful that you didn't. Mon dieu though, you are fretting a lot tonight."  
Medic huffed. Spy realised that his teammates were slowly starting to drift off. He elbowed the Engineer and nodded meaningfully towards a red building slowly beginning to loom over a hill.  
"Hey, gents, we're nearly there!" he called back.

The team stirred and slurred their affirmations. Medic was still alert and patted Heavy forcefully on the shoulder. The giant yawned and stroked Medic's head. The smaller man bristled as his hair was ruffled, but relaxed and pointed out the Red base. Heavy's eyes snapped open.  
"I got coffee for when we're there." Engineer informed them all. "Who wants a flask?"

Pyro and Medic didn't drink coffee, but the flasks were distributed to the rest of the men. Scout pulled out a large can of _Bonk!_ and downed it, clutching the hot thermos in his other hand.  
Soldier leaned over the bodies of his comrades, eagerly seeking a better view of the Red base, now only a five minute journey away.

**-  
AN: I have writer's block at the moment, and would appreciate prompts. You can commission or request me to write things either over PM, or on my Tumblr headcanons blog (which I'm more likely to check.)  
.com**


	3. Bolts

**AN: Sorry for the late update and if you deem it to be poor-quality in comparison to the other chapters. I wrote this on an iPad with rapidly declining levels of charge, exhausted on a five hour journey from my hometown to my current city of residence. At 10 o'clock in the evening.  
I haven't done much in the way of editing it either, exams and all. Once again, sorry for the wait!  
I appreciate reviews (especially constructive crtiticism)  
**

The mercenaries looked apprehensively towards the now looming base.

Their driver's fingers tapped nervously against the steering wheel, and a rapidly puffing cigarette drooped from his lips.

Scout's mouth was pulled into a loud yawn, and his long limbs tangled over the bodies of his co-workers in an exaggerated stretch. Soldier was clutching at the arms of the Demoman, trying to shake the exhaustion out of the snoring bomber. Demoman picked at his eyepatch, absent-minded in the little sleep he was allowed.

"Goddamnit, Demo!" Soldier snapped. "Get your drunken ass into the waking world right this minute, or I will take one of my rockets, stick it up there and turn you into an oversized puppet!"

Demoman grunted and flapped his hand towards the loud buzzing in a dismissive manner. Metal jars clinked when Medic leaned over his seat to drop a thermos into their laps. Hungrily, Soldier fumbled for the jar. Medic gave him a steely glare and flicked his look at Demoman, who was shuffling and slurring as he attempted to rouse himself for the coming stop.

"I think you've had quite enough coffee, loudmouth." Medic snarked, wrinkling his nose before taking a hesitant swig of his own thermos. He gagged and awkwardly swallowed the bitter drink, briskly passing a napkin over the lid and passing it to an unwitting Scout. Heavy chuckled under his breath, glancing at the unapologetic doctor.

"I hate coffee," Medic grumbled quietly. He dragged his bloodstained sleeve over his mouth and grimaced. "It's just a foul, foul drink. How our Sniper goes through the day practically sweating the stuff will always be a mystery to me."

The Texan in the front swore as their car veered into a sharp turn and bucked at chunky stones that had rolled from a small bank of pebbles built up at the side. Scout squealed and threw his torso away from the splash of coffee that surged from his cup. The scalding liquid pathetically splattered onto Pyro's waterproof uniform, slithering over and settling in creases. Pyro huffed when they saw, gingerly sitting up to brush wobbling brown beads away. Engineer leaned back, craning his head to quickly survey the team.

"Sorry about that ya'll, road's a bit bumpy."

"Oh yeah, we felt!" snapped Scout, unnerved by his close encounter.

"Come on, boy, I know we've all been cooped up, but we're nearly there."

"I bet you jokesters that their base would've been fucking sky high now, if you'd just let me run all the way over there and chuck a few bombs down. Little bit of running, chuck the bombs down, boom boom, run back and bam! Drinking booze with Miss. Pauling hanging off my arm, finally getting the respect that I deserve offa you chuckleheads."

Demoman slurred some obscure Scottish swearword at Scout, laughing off the boy's cocky venture. Soldier swelled with a dark red face to match his uniform, and pulled himself up on the seats to glare down at Scout.

"This is a team, private!" he bellowed. "If we could beat the crap out of those hippies with just one man, then you would not need to be here! I would have beaten the crap out of them all by myself, and mailed their asses back to their sorry mothers with my boot as a stamp!"

"Oh, oh, you could have done it all by yourself, huh? What was stopping you all this time, huh? Yeah, bet you never thought about that before you started bragging!"

"If I had beaten them all without your help, then none of you sissies would have seen a real man in action! All these years, I have been educating you all in war!"

"Scout and Soldier need to calm down!"

"Herren, we have been cramped in this car for a long time, but we only have a couple more minutes until we arrive!"

"Bloody Hell, not awake for five minutes and all this blooming noise?"

"Mmrphm mmm! Mrpuh, mrr mr mr!"

"Hey, gents, can ya'll settle it down back there?" Engineer called back. "We're pulling up in their base soon. We got everything that we need?"

Soldier grunted, roughly pushing Scout back down. "You!" He jabbed a meaty finger at Pyro. "My ladies in the back?"

Pyro peered into the boot. "Mrrrrr hm. Hmm mmm hmmhr."

"My bombs?"

"Mmrm hm hm."

"Sascha?"

"Hm hm hm hmm."

"My tools?"

"Hm hm."

"Your flamethrower?"

"Hmmm...hm hm hm hrr mrrrmrr hm hm mmmm..." Pyro sighed something through their mask.

"Well, that's all good then."

The contents of thermoses slowly began to empty. Demoman perked up, repugnant waves of bad breath blasting between him and Soldier as the two enthused about their inevitable victory.

The crunch of rough concrete shuddered under the car wheels. Engie breathed in sharply, and the car crawled up the driveway.

"Everybody quiet now!" He hissed. His hand tightened around the handle of the car door. He sucked in a breath of great resolve, and hurried outside.

His team padded to the car boot, facing the base door. The team of seven worked quickly, wincing at every clatter of metal on metal. Heavy was beginning to load his bullets, Scout dancing on his feet to warm up for his run.

Engineer flinched when his equipment touched the floor. The metal rattled, rods and wrenches knocking against each other in noisy clangs. He glanced up at Medic, who was scuttling near the bushes that lined the walls.

"You found a hidey-hole yet?"

"Nein!" Medic panicked, pushing the bushes to the side. Engineer clucked, lightly tightening one of the screws on his teleporter.

"Don't get too hung up about it, it's just in case. Got the stuff you need?"

"Yes, I've a few bandages and painkillers. Everything that I should need."

"Good to hear. Remember, I've got a teleporter going just outside our base, so did you want to wait for people to come through to you there?"

"No, that should not be necessary. It's no use for people to die before they get to a teleporter, and if what Spy told us is true..."

"I get your meaning."

"By the way, you may want to make haste with that teleporter. Our team is getting antsy; they don't want to start the mission without it."

"That's fair enough. You can tell them that I'm just about ready."

Medic dashed past Demoman and Soldier, both loading rockets and bombs.

"We nearly ready, Doc?"

"Ja, but focus on loading your ammunition first."

"Nearly done in any case'" Demoman grinned over at Scout. "Do I need to do some ballet practice before running in, eh?"

Scout opened his mouth to throw back a retort, interrupted as the pyro behind him lightly tapped his back and gestured crossly at the base. He settled for a silent middle finger in Demoman's direction.

Heavy was stroking Sascha's barrel. His forehead creased in an anxious frown, and he looked from his gun to the base in front of them. Medic appeared behind him, and gently tapped him on the shoulder with a glossy red glove.

"Is Doctor going to be OK? Do you have hidey place?"

"Nein, not yet. Do you remember your job?"

Heavy gave him a wicked grin, with all the aggression of a bear squaring up for a kill.

"No survivors."

"Well done."

Engineer jogged up to join them, gathering the other men as he ran. The sky was an almost black shade of navy, absent of stars in the wake of blinding white lamps. The lights stood proudly, mounted on tall, black poles. They marked every metre of the walls, surrounding the seven and casting angled shadows all around them. Against the lights and dark sky, the merry blue paint of the doomed building gleamed at its brightest.

They looked up. They looked at each other. They looked to their weapons, and at their feet with a doubt that they didn't want to consider- feeling guilt. Failure was an option that they didn't necessarily wish to go through- but guilt wasn't a matter of shooting at the wrong time, or fumbling for grip at a cliff face. It was some cocky mind trick that every mercenary considered themselves impervious to, and it was a twisting, creeping, shadowy choker that should never be a worry to any self-respecting contract killer.  
It was pulling its first game: if one is afraid of the guilt, then does it mean that they already feel guilt? For actions not-yet performed, and screams not yet heard? A hard-pressing finale before nerves raced into fingertips, curling their fingers around their weapons.

Engineer swept forwards, brandishing a spanner at the cheap little security alarm of the garage. The tap of metal into hand was almost a sneer in itself.

He made quick work of the box, and Scout bolted forwards into a sliding tackle under the door, rising in slow, noisy judders.

The young man tapped at his earpiece with more hesitance than he would have cared to admit as he shot out from beneath the door and twisted his body around his elbow in a pivot that took him onto his feet. Survey was his job- quite literally, scouting out areas.  
Short sprints down corridors.  
Cautious checks around corners.  
Almost invisible fidgets, contractions and efforts of muscles that took him soaring up a staircase in half the time of someone who was perhaps not an elite runner.

All of it with breathy whispers of relief to his teammates. "Clear. Clear. Clear. Clear. Clear. Clear. Clear." Every time he darted into empty rooms his muscles tensed anxiously, waiting for the onslaught of bullets to his wiry frame.  
Survey was his job. Making sure he didn't die was somebody else's- an offline Respawn, a far-off Medic, some hand of fate that he didn't believe in, say. Cheats to help him where fortune and modern technology favoured him, but now he was pelting around a deathly quiet sea of blue paint.  
"Clear. Clear. Clear. Clear. Clear. Clear. Clear." A war chant, a report and a prayer all in one.

The garage door was fully open by this point, and there was some safety in seeing their 'innocent' foul-mouthed, downright perverse mascot's red t-shirt blitz towards them from the grey background.  
A grin, cocky and hot-blooded. One that split Scout's face and echoed to his colleagues'.


End file.
